


Double Check

by jdrush



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Friends to more, M/M, Sequel, post episode
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-29
Updated: 2019-12-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:42:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22018834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdrush/pseuds/jdrush
Summary: After the events at the pool, Sherlock decides to come clean to John.  This is a sequel to 'Adjournment', which can be found here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21396700
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 3
Kudos: 45





	Double Check

SPOILERS: The Blind Banker; The Great Game; references to my story, 'Adjournment'  
DISCLAIMERS: Characters belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC1 and Moffat and Gatiss.  
AUTHOR'S NOTES: I'm still slowly uploading some of my old stories to the archive. This one was originally posted to my LJ on 12/29/2011 under the title, "Gambit". I had to change it as I recently wrote a story for the Marvel fandom and accidentally gave it the same name. No betas were harmed in the making of this fic, and it has not been Brit-picked. All mistakes are mine.

Italics indicate thoughts

"Shower's free," John called out as he walked into the sitting room, towel drying his hair. He noticed Sherlock was sprawled on the sofa, right where he had left him. The younger man hadn't moved since they had returned to the flat.

No, that wasn't true, John noted. At some point, Sherlock had managed to get to his bedroom and change clothes, as he was now dressed in a tee-shirt and pyjama bottoms, his blue-grey silk dressing gown wrapped around him like a child's security blanket.

"Hmm." It was the most Sherlock had added to the conversation since leaving the pool, riding silently during the cab ride back to Baker Street, a troubled, preoccupied look in his eyes.

"It'll warm you up," John commented, draping the towel around his neck.

"Hmm."

"Just be careful of the penguins. They bite."

"Of course."

John sighed, knowing Sherlock hadn't heard a word he had said. He had learned from experience that there was nothing he could do when Sherlock was in one of these moods except to ride it out.

"Can I get you something?" he asked cordially, hoping to get Sherlock talking. "A cup of tea perhaps?"

"He's out there somewhere," Sherlock replied.

A shiver flashed down John's back. The knowledge that Moriarty was still at large, planning his next wave of mayhem and destruction, wasn't something he really wanted to think about at that moment. "I know."

"He won't stop."

"No, I imagine he won't."

"We're marked men now, John. Pawns in his twisted little game."

"Yes, I suppose we are. Toast?"

That finally got Sherlock's attention. He turned his head and stared at his flatmate, sure he misheard. "What?"

John headed into the kitchen, calling out over his shoulder, "I never made it to Sarah's for dinner and I'm feeling a bit peckish. Thought I'd grab some toast."

"Toast?!" Sherlock echoed incredulously, leaping off the sofa.

"With jam. If you haven't used it all up in your experiments. Want a piece?"

"You can eat with a madman running around loose?"

"I can eat because I'm hungry," John answered calmly, tossing a couple of slices of bread into the toaster.

Sherlock watched from the doorway as John pottered around their cluttered kitchen. "Are you daft? You almost died tonight!"

"And one has to do with the other. . .how?"

"Jesus Christ, John!" Sherlock exclaimed. "You had a fucking bomb strapped to you!"

"Yes, thank you for reminding me. Probably won't sleep for a fortnight. But that doesn't change the fact that I'm hungry."

"And it doesn't bother you that HE'S still out there?" Sherlock asked, entering the room and leaning against the counter.

"Of course it bothers me that lunatic is on the streets," John answered, digging the jar of jam out of the fridge, "but as you are so fond of saying, worrying about it won't change it. He'll still be out there, and I'll still be hungry, so I might as well have a snack."

"How did he get you?"

If John was thrown by the non sequitur he didn't show it. "Sherlock, I'm really not in the mood to talk about this," he said, wearily. "I had a bad night, and I'd like to just have a quick bite and crawl into bed for a week."

"But John, you're a crime scene!" Sherlock protested

"And you're an utter prat. Now that we've established that. . ."

"How can I solve this if you won't help me?" Sherlock demanded.

"WE can solve this tomorrow," John insisted. "After a good night's sleep."

"That's unacceptable!"

"Too bad."

"I need the information now, while it's still fresh in your mind, not after you've had a chance to forget things or time alters your memories. Do you see?"

The worst of it was, John DID see, and though he hated to admit it, Sherlock was right. With an exasperated sigh, he said, "I was just walking to Sarah's when I heard a scream from an alley--a woman's scream, sounds of a struggle. I ran towards it, thinking I could help, but the alley was empty. When I turned to leave, I bumped into him."

"Moriarty?" Sherlock asked, surprised. "He was there?"

John retrieved his toast from the toaster, placed it on a plate and started spreading the jam. "Well, I didn't know who he was at the time. Thought it was just 'Jim from IT', but yes. He was there."

"He got his hands dirty on this one," Sherlock muttered under his breath. "Personal." Turning his attention back to John, he queried, "Then what?"

Finding a clear spot on the table, John sat down and started eating. "Don't know. Everything went black."

"He hit you?" Sherlock didn't even notice his hands had clenched at just the thought.

John shook his head in the negative. "Chloroform, judging by how sick I was when I woke up."

"Where was that?"

"The pool." He paused for a moment before adding, "The vest was already strapped on."

Just hearing those words made Sherlock's blood boil. _He touched my John. He hurt my John. I will destroy him!_ Calmly, not showing his true emotions, he asked, "Did he say anything to you?"

John chuckled at that. "He said a lot. He likes to hear the sound of his own voice."

A sly smile quirked Sherlock's lips. "Yeah, I noticed."

"Most of it didn't make sense. I was still rather groggy."

"Try," Sherlock encouraged.

John took a couple of bites of his snack before answering. "He said--you were ruining his game, that your interference had become bothersome. He said he had to prove to you that he was serious."

"Mission accomplished," Sherlock said, dryly. "Was there more?"

"Something about there could only be one victor. That this would be your only warning. If you didn't stay out of his business he would have you on your knees, begging to be put out of your misery."

"Charming visual. And one not likely to happen." Sherlock stepped over to the table and, pushing aside his microscope and a couple of Petri dishes, hopped up on it, sitting facing John. "Can you remember anything else?" he asked, eagerly.

"He said just killing you would be too easy. He wanted to destroy you, and I would help him achieve his goal." John paused, triangle of toast halfway to his mouth. A stricken look crossed his face as a piece of the puzzle clicked into place. "Oh, Christ, he meant me," he gasped in horror, his voice little more than a whisper.

Sherlock didn't say anything--there was nothing to say. He had hoped John wouldn't figure it out. He should have known John was smarter than most people--himself included--gave him credit for.

"When he said he was going to burn the heart out of you--I thought he meant literally. I didn't think. . .oh, God." John took a deep breath, willing the food he had put on his stomach would stay there. Placing the unfinished piece of toast back on the plate, he pushed it away, mumbling, "Not hungry anymore."

Seeing the stricken look in John's face tore at Sherlock's heart--the one he went to great lengths to hide. The one that was ripped open and laid bare in one crushing moment in an abandoned pool house. "I'm sorry John," he whispered, pain lacing every word. "I'm so. . .sorry. I got you into this mess. I thought he only wanted me. I didn't think. . .I never saw. . ." He signed, despairingly. "This wasn't supposed to happen."

_I wasn't supposed to fall in love with you._

John looked up, startled by Sherlock's words and his tone of voice. Usually so sharp and cutting, now almost broken. And the fact that he apologized for his actions was probably a first--at least a first for John. "Sherlock, it's not your fault," he insisted. "You couldn't have known that maniac's plan."

"How can you say that?" Sherlock shot back. "After everything he had done, I should have known what he was capable of. And yet I taunted him, enticed him to come out and play. I thought it was just a game, just like all the rest. A puzzle. A challenge. I never imagined. . .I never intended for you to get hurt."

"I'm fine, Sherlock." John gave him a small reassuring smile and a pat on the knee. "A little shaky, but fine. We both are."

"Are we?" The words slipped out, unbidden. Sherlock dipped his head, knowing he was revealing too much. THIS is what happened when he lost his grasp of his carefully crafted self-control. Dammit to hell, he was going to kill Moriarty one day. Slowly and painfully.

John studied Sherlock in that moment, head bowed, hurting and lost. He had never seen his friend like this before. Sherlock looked young, ridiculously young, in his too big dressing gown and that mop of riotous curls. Love flooded through John, and he wanted nothing more than to fold the man in his arms and comfort him, but he knew Sherlock would never accept. "Sherlock, are you okay?" John asked, concerned.

Sherlock gave a sniff of disdain. "Out of patches," he muttered, trying to minimize the damage.

But John had spent too much time with Sherlock, observed his flatmate more than Sherlock would probably be comfortable with, if he had known. "No, it's more than that. I've seen you when you run out of patches. I've also seen you manic, depressed, bored, angry, sulking, distracted, indifferent and on very rare occasions, happy."

"Happy?" Sherlock disputed, a hint of smile touching his face in spite of himself.

"Okay, less than miserable. But I've never seen you like this."

"Like how?"

 _Human,_ John's brain filled in. What came out, however, was, "You're acting. . .unsure of yourself."

"And how exactly should I be acting, doctor?" Sherlock shot back sarcastically, sounding more like his old self. "I almost lost you tonight."

"This isn't the first time we've faced danger. Remember General Shan? We cut it close that night, too."

"This was different. I brought all this on by myself. I misjudged the entire situation. I thought I was so clever, and my massive ego almost cost you your life."

"In case you missed it, Sherlock, I wasn't the only one who almost died tonight," John commented, as he stood from the table, tossing the cold uneaten toast away, and placing the dish in the sink. "I had to sit there and watch a sniper's laser pointed at your head. And if that bomb had gone off when we were still in the building, it wouldn't have just been my body under that rubble. But we got lucky. Nothing happened to us. It's all good."

"How can you be so calm about this?" Sherlock asked. "You talk about what happened tonight as casually as discussing the weather."

John stepped over to the table to stand next to his friend. "It was my life for years--in combat, in hospital. You get used to it, dealing with life and death on a daily basis. You learn to accept that any day, any minute, could be your last. You learn to cope because it's the only way to keep functioning. Tonight just brought all that training back."

"Training," Sherlock repeated, his voice flat. "Of course. You attacked Moriarty because that was what you had been trained to do. The good soldier."

John didn't correct him, didn't think it was the right time to blurt out, 'No, I did it because I love you'--wondered if the time would ever be right to tell Sherlock how he really felt. Instead he inquired after something he had been curious about.

"One thing has been bothering me," he said. "What did Moriarty mean at the pool, when he kept saying you should 'tell me'? Tell me what?"

Sherlock tensed at the question, though his face remained unreadable. "Nothing," he bluffed. . . or tried to. This was really not a topic he wanted to deal with at the moment, if ever.

"He seemed pretty insistent."

"Just the rantings of a psychopath. Just forget it."

John rested a comforting hand on Sherlock's shoulder as he said, "Sherlock, whatever it is, you can tell me. You'll still be my friend. Nothing you can say will change how I feel about you."

Sherlock chuckled, bitterly, "You really have no idea."

"No idea about what?"

_"You should tell him, Holmes."_

Sherlock could hear Moriarty's taunt in his head, and knew that was exactly why he had to keep quiet. Moriarty already knew--or suspected--too much. If he were to tell John how he felt, if their relationship moved from just friends to. . .more . . .how much leverage would that give his enemy? Just one more weakness Moriarty could exploit. The only prudent move was to keep quiet and yet. . .

How could he continue on the way they were? Each day, his feelings for John grew, each day John became more important to him, each day he fell further in love with the extraordinary man who shared his flat and his life. He couldn't hide his feelings forever--Moriarty proved that tonight. The truth would come out eventually.

But what if John wasn't accepting of that truth? That was an eventuality Sherlock hadn't even addressed. Maybe John wouldn't reciprocate Sherlock's affections, or worse, dismiss them all together. After all, John had never given any indication he was anything but straight. Which brought up the whole subject of Sarah. Maybe Sherlock was pinning his future happiness on a man he could never have. Maybe that was Moriarty's plan--he knew John would reject Sherlock, would desert him, would leave behind a shattered, broken man. . .

"Sherlock. . .?" John asked anxiously, giving his shoulder a friendly squeeze.

Only then did Sherlock realize he hadn't answered John's question. Brushing off the concern with a dismissive wave of his hand, he replied, "Nothing. Just. . .ignore me. Long night."

"But Moriarty. . ."

"Moriarty is an inconsequential toad," Sherlock spat out, angrily.

"He's also got you twisted into knots and I'm trying to figure out why."

"He tried to kill you."

"Besides that."

"What more reason do I need?" Sherlock challenged.

"He has something on you?" John suggested. "A deep, horrific secret that he's keeping? Some incriminating evidence of a crime you committed or. . ."

"NO!" Sherlock protested, vehemently. "Why would you possibly think that?"

"I don't know, Sherlock. I'm in the dark here. You won't talk to me. You've been acting odd all night." At Sherlock's bemused look, John amended, "Odd for you, at any rate. What am I supposed to think?"

"You're supposed to trust me."

"I do." Skilled surgeon's fingers tenderly brushed the fringe from Sherlock's eyes. "Why don't you trust me?" John sighed, sadly.

That took Sherlock aback. "Of course I trust you, John. With my life."

_With my heart._

"But not enough to tell me your secret."

Sherlock was torn. Part of him wanted to keep quiet, keep John safe. Another part wanted to speak the truth--how deeply he cared for John, how dear John was to him, how much John had come to mean to him. How much he loved John. . . a love that could get them both killed.

Why was this so hard? They were just words. Sherlock knew a million of them in numerous languages. Surely, SOME of them must apply to this situation. If only he could get past all these messy emotions and just THINK. . .

"Sherlock, please. . . just tell me," John implored. "Whatever it is. . .it won't matter to me. I promise."

Wide, vulnerable eyes glanced up at John; a soft hesitant voice asked, "What if I want it to?"

Those words triggered something in John, something that had been niggling at him since this weird conversation had started. Something that went deeper than bombs and arch enemies and friendship and this whole chaotic world he and Sherlock lived in. John would be the first to admit he wasn't the best at talking about 'feelings', but at least he accepted he HAD feelings. Unlike Sherlock.

Until tonight.

This moment--this is what the whole night had been leading up to: Sherlock, forced to admit he wasn't a sociopath (high-functioning or otherwise), that he could care (no matter how hard he tried to fight it), that he had a heart (which could be broken.) That there could be something that meant more to him than the work, than the game. That as much as he pretended, he was in fact as human as anyone.

John felt for his friend. He could only imagine how difficult this was for Sherlock-- to bare his soul, to acknowledge those taboo thoughts, to examine those traitorous emotions. To show John this other, more vulnerable side. Whatever had happened to Sherlock at the pool had affected him deeply, forcing him to deal with the fallout, and John was determined to be there to help him through it, no matter where tonight took them. They were now at a crossroads, and John needed to know where Sherlock stood--needed to know if, perhaps, there could be something more than friendship in their future. He needed to hear it from Sherlock's own lips.

It was Sherlock's move.

"Sherlock," he urged, "what did Moriarty want you to tell me?"

Sherlock shook his head. "I can't. . ."

"Yes, you can."

"He'll use you as a weapon against me. I won't have that unholy bastard touching you again."

"Tell me."

"I can't lose you, John," Sherlock pleaded. "Do you see?"

"Tell me."

_"Have you told him, Sherlock? Should I" ?_

Stripped of his confidence, his defenses in tatters, Sherlock was left shaky and exposed, a most unfamiliar--and unwanted--emotional state.

His feelings for John scared him. NOTHING scared him, but the thought of losing John filled him with terror. He could never admit that every time he watched John leave the flat--to go to work, to go to the shops, to go see Sarah--he feared John wouldn't return. He couldn't tolerate this flaw within him, this pathetic neediness. But he couldn't help how he felt, no matter how much he tried to deny it. Somewhere along the way, he had fallen in love with John Watson, and he hated it. Hated the questions, the doubts, the foreign feelings. They were so pedestrian. He was better than that. He was above all those piddling problems and emotions.

Wasn't he?

Sherlock noticed that John was just standing there, watching him, waiting for an answer. His supposed non-existent heart was pounding in his chest as his hands grasped the belt of John's robe and he pulled the other man closer to him. Shaky fingers reached up and cupped John's face, a thumb brushing away a smudge of raspberry jam at the corner of John's mouth. John's eyes fluttered shut at the touch, and a small helpless gasp passed his lips. Sherlock studied John's reaction, comprehension slamming him like a punch to the stomach.

_No. Could it be that easy? Could I have been so blind? Does John. . .could he feel the same way about me?_

Tentatively, anticipating and dreading the answer, he stated, "You didn't attack Moriarty because of your army training."

John's eyes opened, his blue gaze locked with Sherlock's, and he whispered a simple, "I love you," his warm breath ghosting across Sherlock's face.

And for once, Sherlock had no words. All he could do was act, and John's heart flipped at the feel of Sherlock's lips against his. Lips that he had dreamed about, lips that he had hungered for. His. Finally.

It's the bravest thing Sherlock has ever done. It was also the dumbest.

_I've just condemned him to death._

The kiss didn't last long, nothing more than a shy, soft pressing of lips, barely touching, just breathing each other in.

"So long," Sherlock sighed, feeling the back of John's hand along his jaw, tender and loving. "I've wanted to do that."

"Me, too." And with that, John's mouth once more found Sherlock's, and there was nothing shy about this kiss. This kiss was passionate and hungry, a kiss that caused Sherlock's stomach to flutter in the most pleasant way. A bold tongue licking along Sherlock's plush lower lip caused him to moan softly, a moan that only grew louder as John slipped inside and Sherlock tasted him for the first time.

John's hands slipped behind Sherlock's neck, pulling him closer as the kiss intensified. He swirled his tongue lazily around Sherlock's, slow and soft, deep and gentle, taking his time, detailing every inch of Sherlock's mouth. For long moments, drowning in sensations, just losing themselves in each other. All the love and devotion John felt for Sherlock--and Sherlock for John--was put into that kiss.

It didn't take John long to realize that this moment could easily spiral out of control--and with the crazy night they had had, the last thing they needed was to do something they both might regret. This new development between them was still so delicate and fragile, it needed to be treated with care.

So, reluctantly, with one final lick across Sherlock's lower lip, John broke the kiss and pulled away.

"John?" Sherlock mumbled, still dazed by the glorious kiss and slightly confused that it had ended. "Something wrong?"

"No," John sighed contentedly, resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder. "Best snog I've had in years."

"Then why did you stop?" Sherlock demanded, a touch petulantly.

"Not quite ready for more," John confessed.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, teasing his lips along John's neck, enjoying the resulting purr. "What's wrong with a bit of kissing?"

John chuckled. "Not one damn thing. I meant *after* the kissing."

"After the. . ." Sherlock paused, trying to make sense of that sentence. His thought processes were a bit fuzzy at the moment--John's fingers running through his hair was rather distracting. "Ah, you mean sex."

"Yeah."

Sherlock's face fell. "You don't want to have sex with me," he stated, dejectedly.

John realized what he had said and rushed to reassure his friend. "No! That's not it. I do!" A nervous giggle. "I really REALLY do!"

"Then why. . .?"

John pinched the collar of Sherlock’s dressing gown, letting the fine expensive silk slide through his fingers. "I've thought about you, Sherlock--about us. Like that. Which is really strange because I never have before. Thought about men that way, that is." He paused, letting his words fall between them.

"Ah," Sherlock said, finally. "So you haven’t. . .?"

"Nope. Not once," John confessed. "Never even tempted. But then, I’ve never, ever felt anything like I feel for you." Nuzzling Sherlock's throat, he added with a self-depreciating chuckle, "It seems I don't just break the rules for you--I throw the bloody book away."

"I never knew," Sherlock whispered, bewildered, amazed. "You've never shown any indication that you felt. . . oh. . ." The sentence trailed off, because as soon as he said the words, he knew he was wrong. John was constantly showing him how he felt, from the meals he cooked (and insisted Sherlock eat), to the constant trips to the shops (reluctantly made, but made none the less), to the abuse he took, the sacrifices he made, the unending interruptions to his life he endured with patience and humour.

John noticed the moment Sherlock made all the correct deductions and just smiled. "You, who is so attentive, so observant had no clue I was mad for you."

"But what about Sarah?" Sherlock asked cautiously, curiously.

"Sarah's a friend. A good friend. In another time, perhaps she could have been more. A time before I met you. But not now." Gentle fingers stroked lovingly down Sherlock's cheek. "Now there's only you."

Sherlock suddenly got that look, that excited, childlike expression of pure glee he would get upon deducing something that had been just out of his grasp. "Oh! Of course! The sofa! I thought she was just stringing you along but it was you. . .oh. .. how did I not see this?"

"You're an idiot," John quipped.

"I suppose I am," which caused them both to laugh.

They stood there for a few moments in their disordered kitchen, forehead-to-forehead, breathing one another in and enjoying each other's closeness.

John eventually broke the easy silence between them. "So this was the big secret Moriarty wanted you to tell me." Sherlock nodded. "And by not telling me, you thought you were protecting me."

"For all the good it did either of us. I failed you, John."

"You SAVED me, Sherlock," John amended. "You can never know how empty my life was before you."

"Yes, I can," Sherlock replied, as he pulled John closer, comforted by the warm softness of the terry-cloth robe against his cheek. "I've never had anyone to care about before. It's quite frightening. . ."

John thought back on his fellow soldiers, and his patients. The ones who made it, and the ones who didn't. He had been responsible for many lives in his time, but none more important than Sherlock. "Yes, it can be," he agreed, softly.

Sherlock sighed. "You do know he'll use our relationship to destroy us both. I've put you in grave danger, and I don't know how to fix it."

"WE'LL fix it," John corrected. "Together."

"This is my war, John," Sherlock stated, emphatically.

"Which makes it my war, too."

Sherlock ran a tender hand over John's cheek, marveling at the determination etched in the good doctor's face. Sherlock had never had a champion in his life. Then again, he had never had a true friend, either. Not like John.

No one was like John.

Cupping John's face lovingly in his large hands, he murmured, "I should just bundle you onto a plane and get you the hell out of England."

"But that won't do much good, will it?" John said, knowingly.

"Probably not. But you'd be safe for a little while."

"I don't think anyplace will be safe until Moriarty is out of the picture. Permanently."

"I'm working on that."

"Not tonight you're not. We should get to bed and try to get some sleep. I'm sure Lestrade will have a lot of questions for us tomorrow. . .today. . .whatever the hell time it is." But when John began to pull out of their embrace, Sherlock just held him tighter. John shot him a quizzical look. "Sherlock. . .?"

"Stay with me tonight, John," Sherlock requested, softly.

John gave a nervous little chuckle. "That might not be a good idea. I. .. um. . . Probably won't sleep well." John didn't elaborate. It wasn't something they ever really talked about, but John knew Sherlock was aware of his nocturnal terrors. This was just one more to add to the pile.

The corner of Sherlock's mouth lifted into an awkward half-smile. "I know. That's why I extended the offer."

"Oh," John replied, finding himself speechless by Sherlock's unexpected proposal. This night was just simply full of surprises.

"And. . .my rest may also be less than peaceful," Sherlock admitted, shyly.

John's face split into a grateful grin. "In that case. . .just let me lock up, 'kay?"

With a final brush of his lips against John's and a husky, "Hurry," Sherlock hopped off the table and headed to his bedroom.

John quickly locked up the flat and shut down the lights. He was eagerly pulling off his robe as he crossed the threshold to Sherlock's room, only to find the man curled up on his surprisingly clutter-free bed, fast asleep.

Well, he DID have a rough night, John thought to himself with a fond smile.

Pulling back the covers, John carefully climbed into the bed, though there was no fear of waking Sherlock, who was dead to the world. He spooned up behind the great detective and threw a possessive, protective arm around the slim waist. No one would touch Sherlock if John Watson had anything to say about it, he silently pledged.

As he was drifting off to sleep, he laced his fingers through Sherlock's long ones and sighed contentedly.

They'd get through this. . .together.

THE END

**Author's Note:**

> double check:  
> A check delivered by two pieces at the same time. . . when subjected to a double check, the attacked king must move, which makes the double check especially powerful as an attacking tactic.


End file.
